


Films About Ghosts

by vennandthediagrams



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:46:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vennandthediagrams/pseuds/vennandthediagrams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean comes back to the Men of Letters Headquarters (henceforth "batcave") and tries to get some sleep.</p>
<p>Based on this prompt (http://somedetectivesmarryarmydoctors.tumblr.com/post/45701006839) by Kajsa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Films About Ghosts

When he fell face down into bed that night, his body ached. He was barely cognizant enough to kick his boots off before getting a good grip on the headboard and dragging himself up onto the pillows, sweaty shirt balled up uncomfortably under his ribcage. Dean let his eyes close and exhaled, hoping he was so tired that his body would just let him sleep. It wasn't like how it used to be, fighting for every minute of unconsciousness against guilt and pain and those memories that kept sweeping back against his brain, smashing what little peace he could muster for himself. With the help of a good (cheap) whiskey, of course. But it hadn't been like that. Not since moving into the batcave. He never knew how much he needed his own room, until he had gotten one. 

His body sank into the memory foam as he let the tension eke out of his shoulders and chest. He let go of the headboard and wrapped his arms around the pillow under his head, pulling it to his face, willing himself to let go for just a few hours. But that's when smelt it. A cool breeze after an early spring rain, crisp and clean in a way that he absolutely wasn't. Dean felt his muscles tighten as he pulled himself up onto his elbows, and whipped his head around to stare into the pitch black room. 

Dean rolled onto his side, pulling the knife from his pocket where its handle had been digging into his hip, and then rolled onto his back, leaving his head against the pillow. He reached for the light on his bedside table and flicked it on, ready for whatever it was. Nothing. The room was empty and Dean was left breathing heavily, staring around like a lunatic while the memory foam sucked his shoulder blades down, forcing them into a more comfortable position. After a minute or two he exhaled again and put his knife down on the bedside table. God, he hoped he wasn't going to start hallucinating. That was the last thing they needed. He rolled back onto his side, burying his face into his pillow as he pushed the switch on the lamp, and that's when he smelt it again. That cool, airy scent that was so familiar and at the same time unrecognizable, like a word on the tip of his tongue. He inhaled again, exhaled and lifted his head inhaling once more. Gone. Which meant the smell was coming from his pillow. 

In the dark, Dean shoved it to the side, and reached out against his mattress for the unused side of the bed; the clean pillow and the blankets still tucked under the mattress with military precision like his Dad had taught him when he was a kid. He tugged the pillow out from under the sheets, not sure why it was still there, why he hated sleeping on that side, and held it to his face.

In the split second before he inhaled, he thought that he should probably not keep sniffing things that carried this weird scent. At least, not without telling Sam first. For all he knew, there was some monster out there they had never heard of before that left its scent on things, and he'd wake up noseless or blind or dead. But it was too late. He had already tracked himself to inhale and he was too tired to change courses now. The scent was stronger on the unused pillow, which seemed friggin' impossible. Like clean air, so pure that you could only find it up a mountain, or out in the woods, or... or in Purgatory? That didn't seem right, but that's where his brain was taking him. Back to a moment beside a river, heavy arms settling around his waist and under dirt and blood and all kinds of other sick there was this. This smell. Cas. 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, gripping the pillow now like his life depended on it, and inhaling in deep sharp breaths. The bastard. Couldn't answer one damn prayer, but felt free to come sleep in Dean's bed while Dean was out on a job! He didn't even use it for sleeping, since angels don't sleep. He probably just lay there in his stupid coat, leaving his imprint on the foam like it was his own private cloud. He couldn't come when Dean was home? Dean loosened his hold on the pillow as his frustration ebbed. Friggin' angels. He inhaled again, moving the pillow a little further from his face as he remembered that he was still covered in dirt and sweat and blood. Not that it wasn't his pillow because it was, and he could cover it in filth if he wanted to, but the smell. He didn't want it to lose the smell. 

He lay in the dark for a little while, feeling his body go through the motions of relaxing all over again and thinking about Cas laying on the empty side of the bed. Groaning, he rolled himself over again, over the blankets and onto the unused side of the mattress. His body sank slowly into a divot that didn't quite fit him, that the memory foam quickly morphed to compensate for, and he wished it wouldn't. He pulled his pillow over and wedged it under his head, holding Cas' pillow to his chest, as he turned back over onto his side and slowly fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song Mrs. Potters Lullaby by the Counting Crows. The line is "If dreams are like movies then memories are films about ghosts." If Destiel is the ship you sail, you should probably go listen to that song, or just read the lyrics somewhere.


End file.
